


Lost and Found

by silhouette (thiefless)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Falling In Love, Future Fic, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Pre-Slash, Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thiefless/pseuds/silhouette
Summary: Peter thought: some people just weren't meant for love, and that was okay.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 86





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. This is something short and sweet that I decided to just spontaneously publish here. :) Nevertheless, I hope you guys enjoy it.

Peter spent his Friday evening the same way he spent every evening these past few weeks – completely and utterly alone. Not that it bothered him much. Quite the contrary; on rare occasions, he could even half-convince himself it was preferable to the alternative. He, uh, wasn’t the most social person in the world at the moment. That, at least, was easier to swallow than the truth.

He was numb:

a) Numb with indecision  
b) Numb with paralysis – emotional, physical and mental  
c) Numb with society  
d) Numb with pretence and the never-ending masquerade you stitch on the skin of your face  
e) Numb with logic, with sound sense

Just: Peter was numb. 

In its own way, it was simple, really. His mind worked a little like a fuse, a tripwire, a safety button. In the event of intense emotional input, downloading on an unparalleled wavelength, his brain tripped. Simply shut it down. Like a power outage; the television in his mind switched off, and no amount of futile banging on the black screen would resurrect the iridescent colours – an emotional disconnection from a world conditioned to hate him. 

And he wanted _out_ of this vicious cycle, but he couldn't find the power button. His brain wouldn't change the channel. So, there he was: stuck. Going through the motions day in, day out – and the day after that and the dayafter that andthedayafterthat, and the day after that's day. 

He couldn't be certain whether his lungs would still draw breath come that day, anyway. You never knew when you would go – there were good days and bad days, and Peter wanted to live for as many good days as possible.

Except good days had become something of a rarity lately, and he was just so tired – his body was riddled with an incurable fatigue that never slept no matter how much rest he got. It made him so he never wanted to get out of bed, for to face the world was a taxing strain he could no longer afford to waste.

Sometimes – not that he would ever admit it, but sometimes – laying awake at night, it felt like time was spinning out of control, and he could never catch up with the flow, the raw, steady beat of it, regardless of how far he ran; he was always just a second out of sync with everyone else. He wished he had mastery over time, then maybe he could learn how to catch his breath.

Other times, he imagined ants dancing inside his skin, felt spiders crawling over his body, heard flies swatting inside his eardrums. His vocal chords were tired, _so_ _very tired,_ of saying meaningless words in a meaningless world. 

Death was intricate: an ink blob splash on a white page, marring it completely. It could be beautiful – a magnificent work of Art, if only you could adjust to the dichotomy.

Peter didn't want to die. Not really. It wasn't about death, nor the absence of life. For Peter, it was taking back control. Seizing back power with the only means he had in his arsenal. Death. After all was said and done – shouldn't Peter get a say in when to die? 

Maybe no one could adjust. 

Maybe that was the problem. 

Nowadays, alone was his constant companion. He'd managed to push away everyone else in his life. You could even say he was a natural at it. His forte.

Sometimes, he liked to think that Tony–

But, no. 

Peter thought: some people just weren't meant for love, and that was okay. The mystical, divine being that derived Peter's fate from cartomancy never drew the lovers tarot card. The only date he would partake in was one with solitude, and that was okay. 

All of it, everything– it would all be okay, right?

(Right?)

Besides, not every story could be an optimist’s wet dream. Life didn’t work that way. Happy endings were nothing more than fool’s gold – a cheap, conjurer’s trick performed by some omniscient author that chose to end the story on a pretty melody. 

Take _Cinderella_ for instance. A tale beloved throughout the world – revered as the gold standard for true love and soulmates and its infamous conclusion to the whirlwind romance of Prince Charming and Cinderella: _and then they lived happily ever after._

But what justified the decision to label that the end? Who called the shots? Who decided to end it just because they were happy then? 

Consider this: because some know-it-all author blatantly assumed he knew how life worked with such arrogance, he had now warped his unsuspecting readers to believe the best of the world. Because he chose to end it on a scripted, sickly-sweet, optimistic note, now it would hurt that much harder when everyone grew up and realised Sorry, The World Just Doesn't Work Like That. Because he chose for Cinderella's story to end with a marriage and a false promise of a _happily ever after._ He didn't add that the monarchy revolted against the idea of a servant for a Princess; didn't add that marriage to a royal prince she knew nothing about wasn't all it cracked up to be; didn't add the part where she was still just an orphan girl with no home, just more responsibility. 

_(With great power comes great responsibility.)_

Because someone decided to call it the end when Thanos destroyed half of all life and five years later everyone came back. 

Which part was the happy ever after: the part where everyone moved on or the part where everyone came back? Peter was dying to know. 

For fuck’s sake, Peter had an actual, authentic _grave stone,_ complete with an epitaph that read: 

HEREIN LIES PETER PARKER. A WONDERFUL SON AND FRIEND. 

**WE WILL MISS YOU.**

(Yeah, right up until he came back, lost his– _mentor_ , and traded the man's very last trinket for a humiliating betrayal and a short stay in the most secure prison on the planet.

Maybe Peter had always been an epic fuck-up. Maybe that was his tarot card.

At least Tony came back to life. Eventually.)

Anyway. Tonight, he knew he wouldn't be disturbed. Why would he be? Everybody else had plans, and Peter... he _improvised_ , falling back into old habits at the drop of a hat. 

He lay motionless on his couch, discarded bowls and plates, eyes trained unseeing, onto the blank screen of his TV. Peter's mind was elsewhere, his self-flagellant thought processes furiously oscillating between his past mistakes, showcasing every negative outcome like a film on replay. 

And then came the knock at the door.

Peter's skin jumped clean off. When he finished stitching himself back together again, he trudged to his front door, eyeing it warily for a transient second, before biting the bullet.

He opened the door. 

“Hey,” Tony greeted warmly. The brown in his eyes melted in the molten afterglow of the sunset. 

“Hey,” echoed Peter – a breathless exhalation of repressed hope. “What are you...”

In lieu of a response, Tony lifted his arm, and only then did Peter take note of the bags he brought with him. 

“I got takeout.”

Peter was aware he should be formulating a response, but his higher brain functions had just staged a mutiny. 

“Probably should have called first, huh,” Tony added, smile receding slightly at Peter's lack of response. His fingers ached to paint it back on his face. Tony had a perfect smile. “My bad. I just figured – you might want company.”

“Yeah, no. I.” _Good going, Peter_. “That would be okay. Nice, in fact.” To save face, Peter opted to clamp his mouth shut and instead, extended the door further, gesturing for Tony to let himself in. 

Embarrassingly, this was when Peter remembered the appalling state of his apartment. 

Tony, however, appeared unfazed by the mess. If anything, he took it all in his stride. 

“Haven't seen you in a while, kid,” Tony said. He set the food on the kitchen counter. 

“Yeah. I've, just, been busy.”

Something akin to understanding dawned on Tony's face, and he appraised Peter then. “I know the feeling.” 

Peter wondered what Tony glimpsed as he read his face. For one horrible moment, Peter worried that every tiny little thing he thought was depicted on his face; an open book. Peter didn't trust himself to voice his thoughts aloud, to breath a life into them they neither deserve nor respect. 

Because – at which point do you take custody of a thought? At which point does originality cease to hold any meaning, descending into accusations?  
Peter didn't want anyone to prise open his skull, and peel the layers of his brain apart to see just what the mushy stuff was made of. He didn't trust anyone. Couldn’t.

“Hope you're hungry, Pete.”

But, maybe, Peter could let himself go. Just tonight. Just one night off. _Please_. 

“Yeah,” he said, trying for a smile. “Starving.”

Tony’s answering smile was as glorious as the sun, and Peter clung to that image, staving off the lingering clouds swamping his mind. 

Peter smiled back.

Just for tonight, Tony would pick him up, fish him out of the bin of the _lost and found–_ and lay claim to him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! :) Don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts.


End file.
